Bright Lights and Cityscapes
by S. Jadevine
Summary: Like all last times, she let him claim her. Because it's what she can only give. So she did not have to be patient, did not have to hope for a pretend future anymore.


**A/N**: One fancy. Humor me.

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**Bright Lights and Cityscapes**

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_Hold my breath and I'll count to ten_

_I'm the paper and you're the pen_

_You fill me in and you are permanent_

_And you'll leave me to dry_

One, two. One, two.

Waves crash against the rocks on her side of the world, where her feet are rooted. The sun shines its goodbye for the day and Johanna looks up as she sees it off, like a neighbor on its way home. The sky is cerise and beautiful, it is almost unbearable for her to stay firm.

_Wouldn't it be nice to see it now, Finnick?_

Finnick would have loved it. Or maybe not. He might not be with her; he might be beside his wife now, holding her hand as she regains energy after hours of labor. They might be exhausted, but expectant of their son.

He is both Annie's and Finnick's faces, this boy. The eyes, definitely Finnick. Nose, mouth, Finnick, too. Eyebrows and dimples from his mother. Maybe the ears also, Johanna can't be sure. She saw him, even before Annie laid eyes on her child. She did it before she left the hospital this afternoon. She needs to rest, too.

_Hey, Finn. Would she have looked like you, too?_

Maybe. If she — Johanna always believed it's a girl — lived, she would have Finnick's smolders and pouts. Or maybe she would have his pretentious breeziness. She chuckles. Several years from now, that brat might have been the female version of the lothario that Finnick was.

Johanna chastises herself.

Cold water creeps on the soles of her feet. She walks forward until she feels the iciness on her knees, and walks sideways to a nearby rock. Darkness is dawning quickly.

Even before she knew Annie Cresta would come and take Finnick away, Johanna had always thought she and Finnick were too good together, too perfect to last. So even then she had braced herself. Perfection is always short-lived after all. Always.

There had never been grand declarations of love, because both of them did not have that choice. They were too afraid of what might happen if they do. But it was always there, lingering. And it let its presence known whenever they were scared and vulnerable.

So they did.

Surprise.

It's not like they were a unique set. Victors did crazy kinds of things, aside from the already awful ones Snow forced them to do. You got used to it, believe it or not.

And so it happened one day when she realized some weird things about herself, symptoms that started to appear long before she knew it. By the time she saw the two lines that confirmed it all Finnick was again by her door, swiftly grabbing her waist in the habitual movement so familiar to them both, the prelude to every sin they made.

She shoved him away, told him she's pregnant. He was stunned, of course. It made him speechless for minutes and minutes until Johanna could not take the silence anymore. She blurted out that she had already decided, that she could order it from someone she knew. That she only wanted to let him know.

He almost hurt her then. She understood it; she knew it angered him when she settled on dealing with it alone. He said it was his, too. He also mumbled several ridiculous things that Johanna could not tolerate to hear.

_What if it doesn't have to live like them? What if they can hide it from Snow? They have several connections now._

Oh, please.

Even then Johanna wanted to cry and slap him for even thinking about those things. But Finnick accepted it eventually. He was even the one who ordered the medicine, bless him. He tried to participate, she got it. And yet she was alone each time she shoved a goddamn pill down her throat, alone as she tried to hold herself together.

They both knew they have to stop after that. But, like all last times, she let him claim her. Because it's what she can only give. So she did not have to be patient, did not have to hope for a pretend future anymore.

Johanna looks at the sky. She used to wonder how she would have been as a parent. She would have been a no-good. Still, it would have loved her no matter what, that kid. And it was hers alone, something she would never have shared with anyone else. But like all habits uncalled for, she stopped wondering about it.

Johanna looks behind her, at the house Finnick's son would grow in. No light can be seen there yet, but its shadow seems to wave her inside, to rest so she can come back to the hospital tomorrow. She smiled, bittersweet it may be. It's no good trying to think what might have been; it's only good looking forward.

Johanna begins to wend her way there.


End file.
